


Sprint

by El Staplador (elstaplador)



Category: Olympics RPF
Genre: Community: 52fandoms, Cycling, Gen, New Year's Resolutions, POV Second Person, Subtext
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-22
Updated: 2013-09-22
Packaged: 2017-12-27 08:37:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/976717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elstaplador/pseuds/El%20Staplador
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes you wish that you had gone in for the pursuit, that it all depended on you and what you could do alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sprint

**Author's Note:**

  * For [halfeatenmoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/halfeatenmoon/gifts).



Pursuit would be easier. Sometimes you wish that you had gone in for the pursuit, that it all depended on you and what you could do alone, that you could just chase and chase, round and round, and, once in a while, see that strong, lithe figure come into view before you. That she would be chasing you, as you chased her, that you would be the one to pull away. That it would all be up to you. That you could just go faster and faster, and bring her back to you by your own power. Make the catch.

Make the catch. God, if it were only that simple.

When it comes to it, though, and you think about her, and you think about yourself, and yourself in relation to her, it could only be the sprint. You would never feel safe unless you could keep your eye on her. You have to believe that she is equally scared of you, or you would never beat her.

You can't imagine not being able to see her, not being able to look her in the eye in that first instant when you set off. The two of you, starting from the same place. On the track, at least. You suppose that the pursuit would be a better picture: the two of you starting on opposite sides of the world, chasing each other all the way. You can only stretch the analogy so far, though. That's not the way you work. It's definitely not the way that she works.

And that's the point, isn't it? It has never just been about you. After all, that's the appeal of the sprint. Ten per cent inspiration, ninety per cent perspiration. Who said that? You can't remember. Anyway, it's not true in the sprint. Ninety per cent perspiration, yes, but the other ten per cent is will power. Determination, then. Yes, but it's more personal than that. You don't just want to win. You want to win against her. And you don't just want to win against her. You want to annihilate her. You want to leave her way behind you, a sobbing, vanquished stain on those pale boards.

She's so much bigger than you. Her strength is obvious, her power even more so. She used to underestimate you. She doesn't, any more. You used to have to beat her to prove her wrong. These days you just beat her for the satisfaction of beating her. She knows you can, too. You thought, at first, that maybe that was the injury, and you were glad when you worked out that it was just you, your power, your talent, your personality, even. You didn't want to think that she was any less of a cyclist than she had been. (What would that say about you?) It's not that.

She's still good. She's still the best. If she respects you, she's got a damn good reason to do that. She respects you as a competitor, as the one person in the world who is as good as she is. (Ah, but you know you're better.) You think back through the years, amateur and professional, road and track, all those competitors, all those judges, who took one look at you and decided you weren't worth worrying about, who had to change their ideas about you pretty damn quick, because you left them no choice. You left them behind.

She is different. If she ever thought like that, it was years ago, and she has forgotten, and so have you. She is respectful, never resentful. (Well, if you count 'playing dirty' as 'respectful', which you somehow do. There have been times when that has felt like a compliment. Sometimes you wonder if you're being entirely fair yourself. Have you misjudged her? But you can't let yourself think like that; you're guarding that little speck of mistrust jealously, because sometimes it gives you the edge.) She still thinks she can win against you. Sometimes she even does. Sometimes even in a fair fight.

Like this one. You're all square, one sprint each. You had hoped to finish it in two, but she's too good for that. So you have to do it all over again, and (while you'd never admit this) you're almost glad.

You never know which bit you like best: the torturous, crawling follow-my-leader game that the pair of you stretch out for as long as and longer than you can bear it (she's looking back, never taking her eyes off you; you meet her gaze coldly, unimpressed); or the pure physical effort when you finally _know_ it's time to go, and you release your screaming muscles, and your whole body is concentrated on nothing but going faster and faster, and your mind on nothing but catching her.

Of course you will catch her. You are thinking of only one thing besides her, and that is the line. You are not even thinking so much about her now, only in so much as she is something that you have to pass before you get to the line. A little more, only a very little, and you've got it. You've got the jump. There's that intense flicker of elation as you draw level and leave her behind, but that's just something that you have to channel into the business of the next half-minute. Lungs, legs, feet, pedals, track. She's just part of the scenery. You can't forget her, though. One slip, and she will have you.

She's behind you, now. She's putting everything she has into getting back past you. For an instant it feels like a pursuit after all. You can't see her. You have no time to look back. You know she's after you.

You know, too, that she's not going to get you. This one is going to be on your terms. This one has cost you everything, the way they all do, and, like all of them, it is worth it.

The line. She's there, just behind you; there's a wheel in it, perhaps, or even less than that. You don't care. It's enough.

She's yours.


End file.
